Burning Gold
by DezoPenguin
Summary: The thefts of the Phantom Gentleman, Roman Torchwick fill the papers of 1889 London. But when one of his crimes goes too far, he'll find that even the brightest gold can be unwanted when it burns for revenge! Steampunk AU, updates every other week.
1. Prologue

_A/N: This story takes place in the same gaslamp fantasy/steampunk Victorian AU as does _Belladonna Lilies._ Like that story, and in my "Elementary, My Dear Natsuki" series, I have not gone to any particular trouble to keep dialogue fitting with the time and place (seriously, just thinking about writing Yang in period-appropriate style was well beyond my abilities!), though I've tried to avoid any egregious anachronisms...except those as mandated by the Dust-fueled AU itself. Enjoy!_

~X X X~

~ _1875_ ~

Yang Xiao Long waited for a total of approximately eleven minutes after she was left on her own. The fidgeting had started after about three, shifting in her seat and kicking her legs. She'd hopped out of her chair at eight and started looking around the room, at the somber flower arrangements and the black crepe. Three minutes of that had been enough to extract every last bit of interest from the room. She decided that she didn't like it much. It was big and fancy and sparkling clean, but it didn't feel like _home_. It felt like the big front room Uncle Chen put guests in when he wanted to impress them.

Only from what Yang had seen, all of the _other_ rooms were like that, too. Rose Hall might have been big and impressive, but she couldn't imagine how people could actually _live_ there. Still, it was a really large house, and to a restlessly inquisitive seven-year-old, whatever was beyond the doors held endless promise. After all, there could be all kinds of interesting places just kept out of sight. And whatever was out there, it had to be better than the boring morning room, simply by virtue of there being more of it. So, eleven minutes after being told to sit quietly and wait, Yang opened the door and slipped out into the hall.

She had to admit, the house was a pretty neat place. Dark colors seemed to predominate, in the paneling and mahogany-brown fixtures, in the deep russet wallpaper, too dark to be called crimson, and in the shadowy hues of the portraits and landscapes found here and there. It wasn't a grim or forbidding darkness, like under the causeway behind Uncle Wu's that led into the sewers and (so the other children whispered) to an underground city of monsters. It was just stiff and somber, and a little sad.

Yang being herself, she took the time to look around everywhere and see what there was to see. There were portraits of dark-haired men and women, most of them with funny-looking hair, and in the case of the men even more ridiculous moustaches and beards. She liked the ones best that had bright colors, brilliant silks and satins and broad-brimmed hats with silly plumes. There were exotic vases in delicately painted porcelain. There was a room where there were exotically painted wooden masks that didn't seem like they were either English or Chinese, the two cultures Yang had any familiarity with. Between them was a case of weapons: broadswords, maces, rapiers with exotically swept hilts, even a massive scythe like the English said the Grim Reaper carried. Beneath the scythe hung a _jian_, looking every bit as fine as Master Lie's.

All the while she was exploring, Yang was also playing a game. The sport in question was hide-and-seek. Of course, the servants didn't know that they were playing, which gave Yang quite an advantage, but that advantage was offset by the fact that there were so many _of_ them, coming and going about their duties. And Yang was still exploring, so she really couldn't predict where some of them might come from or go to.

In other words, it was a great game.

More than once she'd had to duck out of sight behind some piece of furniture just in the nick of time to avoid being seen. The soft rugs and carpets made her quiet, light steps almost silent (and wouldn't Master Lie be proud of _that_, given how he always criticized her footwork), so at least she could move around without giving herself away.

The kitchens tempted her, as it was getting on towards lunchtime, but Yang was bright enough to know her chance of slipping in and getting her hands on some food without being spotted was basically nil. Besides, that would probably be stealing (she wasn't sure whether she qualified as a guest entitled to hospitality) and someone might get in trouble. It was one thing to snatch something from Liang the fruit-seller, who always put his thumb on the scales when he thought nobody was looking, and quite another to steal from strangers.

So instead of letting her stomach do the talking, Yang snuck around to the main staircase, which was about as grand as any she'd seen. The polished wood bannister begged to be slid down, and she probably would have, too, if it hadn't been for the fact that she was wearing her one good English-style dress, a relatively simple white confection that was still way too confining and fancy for Yang. She had a feeling that if she wrecked it while up to some stunt, her mother would treat her to an extra dose of the Xiao Long temper!

Instead, Yang crept up the stairs, to see what there was to find on the next floor. Which, at first, didn't seem like much, since there weren't much more than bedrooms there. The ones for the family didn't particularly interest Yang, since it seemed kind of creepy to be looking through the private things of people she didn't know, while the guest rooms were just empty and boring. She was considering going back down and trying the kitchens after all (maybe she couldn't swipe anything, but she could try to look cute and pitiful and get the servants to give her a snack before they realized they were supposed to turn her in?) when she heard the whimpering.

The noise was high and bitter, and coming from behind a door up the hall. Worried at what was going on, her first impulse was to investigate. Her second impulse didn't matter, since second impulses were for people who didn't act at once on their first. Yang turned the knob and opened the door wide enough so she could peek around the edge.

The well-oiled hinges didn't make any sound, and Yang's arrival drew no notice. She saw what was obviously a lady's bedroom, with a large bed, a fancy vanity dressing table, and oodles of white lace everywhere. The whimpering was coming from a huddled black lump on the bed, which it took Yang a couple of seconds to realize was actually a very small child.

She really ought to leave, Yang realized. She wasn't supposed to be creeping around the mansion, and she was really not supposed to be bothering the family. But the girl was crying! She couldn't just ignore that, could she? She pushed the door open and went in.

"Um..." she began, not sure exactly what she was supposed to say, "are you all right?"

The whimpering stopped as the child sat bolt upright in shock.

"Who're you?"

Now that she was upright, Yang could see that the child was a girl, no more than four or five. Her hair was almost as dark as her dress, but with hints of red to brighten it up, and she had huge, weirdly silver eyes. Her tiny hands were clutching something that looked like a big, white blanket.

"I'm Yang!" the blonde declared, walking over to the bed. "I'm sorry if I scared you."

"Not scared."

"Uh, you kinda yelped when I spoke."

"Not scared," the girl insisted. "Huntresses don't _get_ scared, and I'm going to be a huntress, so I'm not scared, either."

"Sounds good to me," Yang decided. "What's a huntress?"

"It's a hero! A huntress fights monsters and catches bandits 'n' other bad guys." She looked down at the white cloth in her hands. "My Mama was a huntress."

From the word 'was,' Yang had a pretty good idea what all the flowers, the black decorations, and the black armbands on the servants were about.

"I'm sorry," Yang said. "You must miss her, huh?"

The little girl bit her lip and nodded. If she hadn't been so sad, the sight of her hair bobbing up and down might have been funny, but she was and it wasn't.

Yang went over and hopped up on the bed, then put her arm around the girl and gave her a squeeze. From this angle, she realized that the white cloth was actually a cloak with a hood. She was kind of surprised, because it wasn't fancy or frilly like the rest of the house, but made of good, strong stuff.

"Was that hers?" she asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Are you going to have one like it when you grow up and become a huntress?"

"Yeah, only mine's going to be red!"

"Red, huh? Howcome?"

"Because of my _name_."

"You didn't tell me your name," Yang pointed out.

"It's Ruby. What's yours?"

"I already told you, it's Yang." She perhaps had not allowed for the attention span of a five-year-old who was missing her mother.

"Yang?" Ruby botched the pronunciation.

"Close enough." Yang didn't get uptight over her name. English people messed it up a lot.

"What kind of a name is Yang?"

"It's Chinese."

Ruby gave her a suspicious stare.

"You don't _look_ Chinese," she decided.

"I look like my dad," Yang said. "He's English."

"Oh. Everybody says I look like Mama," Ruby said sadly.

"That's good, though."

"Huh?"

"Sure!" Yang said. "That means she's always with you, even though she's not here. All you have to do when you miss her is look in the mirror, and you can see right there how much she loved you."

Ruby was tearing up, so Yang fished a handkerchief (somehow still clean) out of her sleeve and blotted around her eyes.

"Not crying," Ruby insisted. "Huntresses don't cry."

"Sure they do."

"Huh?"

"You said that huntresses were heroes, right? That means that they're good people. And good people love and care about other people, right? So that means that they get sad, 'cause we get sad when bad things happen to people we care for."

Yang was mostly cribbing off what her mother had told her after her grandfather had died a year ago, but good advice bore repeating.

"So...so...it's a _good_ thing to be sad?"

"Well, not _forever_, 'cause being sad hurts, but...I mean, it's better than _not_ being sad after your mum died. That'd mean either she was all mean and nasty like the wicked stepmothers in fairy tales, or that you were a mean, selfish person who didn't love her. And those would be pretty bad, right? Being sad for a while's better than that."

Apparently Ruby thought Yang was making sense because the floodgates opened. She let go of her mother's cloak, grabbed the front of Yang's dress with both hands, and buried her face against Yang's chest, sobbing frantically. This was not exactly what Yang had expected (and her mum was going to be really angry over her dress being used as a handkerchief), but there was no way she was going to push the little girl away. She wondered how long ago it was that Ruby's mother had died, and why a five-year-old had been crying alone in her dead mother's room, anyway. Didn't rich English people have nurses or governesses or whatever to watch their kids? And where was her _family_, anyway? That's who she needed right now.

The idea that Ruby had been left by herself like this made Yang want to punch somebody in the nose.

What she had then was Yang, though, and so Yang put one arm around her in a reassuring hug and stroked her hair with her other hand, trying her best to soothe and gentle her. It seemed to work, or maybe the tears just played themselves out on their own, because the wracking sobs at last slowed and ebbed away, replaced by rasping breaths. The grip on Yang's dress slackened, and she loosened her grip around Ruby so the girl could sit up.

_Mum's going to be mad, all right,_ Yang thought sadly; the front of her dress was rumpled by Ruby's fists and the fabric was soaked with tears. The crying jag hadn't left Ruby any the better off; her face was all red and blotchy and her nose was running. Yang handed her the handkerchief.

"Here, blow your nose."

Ruby gave a tremendous honk.

"Thank you," she snuffled.

"It's okay. Mum'll just make me wash it."

Ruby shook her head.

"No, no, not that." She hung her head a little. "Papa's just really sad about Mama."

"Oh, so he's not around to talk like this?" Yang understood the missing-dad problem; her own was almost never around. She saw him no more than a couple of times a year.

Which made it even more astonishing when he walked into the room alongside Yang's mother.

"Dad!"

"Papa!"

Yang and Ruby blinked, looked at each other in surprise, then back at the tall man they'd both just named their father. In Yang's case, the resemblance was obvious: he looked like a Viking god, with chiseled Nordic good looks, broad shoulders, and powerful arms and legs. For Ruby...well, Ruby had said that she looked like her mother. Next to him, Yang's mother almost looked comical, a delicate, tiny Chinese woman like a porcelain doll, with pearlescent skin and lustrous almond eyes. Mind you, anyone who thought of her as fragile and delicate really didn't know her at all.

"Yang Xiao Long, what are you doing here? I told you to wait in the drawing room!"

"But it was so _boring_ in there, Mum," Yang said shamelessly.

"And you thought that was reason enough to go prowling through the house, through private rooms, bothering people—"

"Wasn't bothering me!" Ruby spoke up.

"Yeah, I only came in here 'cause I heard her."

"And what are you doing here, Ruby?" their father asked. He didn't say it sharply or angrily, but it was apparently enough that she knew she wasn't supposed to be doing it to make her shrink in on herself.

"I...I..."

"She came in to get her mum's cloak," Yang said, then reached out and took the smaller girl's hand. That seemed to reassure Ruby, as she straightened up again.

"Uh-huh. I...I miss Mama! And I wanted her cloak, and I found it in here, and I was really sad, but then Yang came, and she said it was okay to cry, so I did, and now I feel better, and why did she call you Dad, Papa?"

"Because she's your sister, Ruby. She has a different mother, but I'm her father, too."

"Why didn't you tell me I had a sister?" Yang asked her mother.

"Your father's proper family was none of your concern. He has acknowledged you as his child and generously supported you, and that is more than enough to expect from a man in his situation, until now."

_That_ explanation was definitely one of her "you will understand when you are older" ones—the tone was unmistakable—so Yang focused on the part she could follow.

"So why is it different now?"

"Because Mrs. Rose passed on."

"But how does that change things?"

"It's your father's place to explain," she said, with firm undertones of _and I'm not going to make it easy for him by doing it myself._ Whatever it was, it must have been serious.

Yang's father, to his credit, accepted the challenge. He came over to her and crouched down so that they were at eye level.

"Yang, I would like for you to come here and live with us from now on."

"What, here? Who'd want to live here?"

Her mother didn't actually laugh or smile at Yang's reflexive reaction, but it danced in her eyes. Her father flinched, taken aback.

"Do you hate me that much?"

"Huh? Of course I don't hate you, Dad. But it's this house. It's big and it's cold and it's not like a home at all. It's kind of creepy, really." She glanced at her newfound sister. "It must be really hard for Ruby."

Her father nodded solemnly.

"That...is actually why I hoped that you would come live here with us, Yang. When Ruby's mother was alive, this house was very different. It was a home, a place of family. But now, as you say, it's different. In a lot of aristocratic households, they leave the children largely to the servants, but my wife wasn't like that, and now she's gone. I want Ruby to have her family around her as she grows up, not abandon her to governesses and schools."

_Oh._

So, when Yang had been thinking earlier of how Ruby's family ought to have been there for her, _she_ actually was the family. She'd been being a big sister without even knowing it.

"Mum?"

"It is a fine opportunity for you, Yang. It would give you the chance to be raised in style and comfort, to receive an education, and to have access to the best of everything."

"But I wouldn't get to see you or home or my friends."

She nodded once.

"Not often. There is no gain without loss," she agreed. "Each choice has its good and bad points."

Yang rolled her eyes.

"You sound like Uncle Chen talking to English merchants."

"And you are being pert. Perhaps being raised as an English lady will curb that where I have failed."

Yang grinned saucily.

"Or maybe I'll grow up to be a huntress like Ruby's mum."

"Ruby," her father said, and this time he _was_ stern, "that is a family secret. You are not supposed to tell other people about that." He glanced at Yang's mother, whose elegantly plucked eyebrows had risen in surprise.

"But Yang _is _family! She's my big sister, so it's okay that I told her!"

"Yeah!" Yang said, giving Ruby a quick squeeze on the shoulder. "I am family."

Ruby turned those big silver eyes on her, looking like an eager puppy.

"Does that mean you're going to stay here?"

It wasn't that easy, or at least it shouldn't have been. Maybe it was sisterly instinct at work, but the thought of the little girl left all alone in this big, dark house chilled and appalled her. Yang was going to do everything that was in her power to make sure that Ruby never had to cry like that again.

She gave Ruby her biggest smile.

"Yes. Yes, little sis, it does."

~X X X~

_A/N: Here's hoping the story wraps up before Volume 2 of _RWBY_ comes along and wrecks everything here about Yang and Ruby's family! The story rather needed the family background, since the sisters are front-and-center in the plot, and I decided to take the risk of filling in the blanks for the story even knowing that canon would probably go somewhere different. (Plus, of course, while there is no China in Remnant, there is a China in the real world and therefore Yang's name needs an explanation...although I've again, chosen to keep her first and last names what they are in the show even though I have it on good authority (thanks, yuiseppe and deathcurse!) that "Xiao Long" doesn't work as a non-fantasy Chinese family name any more than "Valkyrie" or "Arc" do as English or French ones!)_


	2. Chapter One

_~ 1889 ~_

They were howling for blood.

The crowd was made up of London's finest. Gentlemen in immaculate evening wear of midnight black and snowy white. Ladies swathed in rainbow finery, and bedecked in glittering jewels that threw back the gaslight. Gently bred, raised to the manner born, the very image of an age of elegance—and they roared and screeched with every blow struck in the fighting-pit below them like the throng surrounding the guillotine during the Reign of Terror.

Humans were what they were, after all.

Junior Xiong folded one leg over the other as he sat watching the bout. As the owner of the Kodiak Club he knew what people wanted, that rush of excitement as adrenaline pumped through their blood, and he'd made his pile making sure they could find it, no matter what way they chose to get that thrill. Whether it was the wines and liquors at the bar, the services of the men and women who worked the private rooms, the risk of gambling either in the brightly lit casino hall among the rush of the crowd or in the card rooms where simple entertainment devolved into intense duels across the green baize tables, he made sure they satisfied that craving—and that brought them back for more.

The pit fights were probably the club's most popular attraction. Junior didn't bother with animals, not cocks or dogs or ratting. Animals were too remote, took too much imagination to identify with. Human fighters meant that the crowd could invest a piece of themselves in every blow struck or received. Throwing out the rules—not just the dandified Queensbury rules that made prize-fighting into a proper _sport_, but even the more basic standards of a bare-knuckle brawl—made sure they got what they wanted. Oh, the betting was fierce, and Junior took his cut, but he knew that gambling on the fights was just an excuse the watchers gave themselves to soothe their consciences.

Part of what drove them was that one of the fighters was a woman. Not only was it a novelty, but there was something that changed in the average person's mind when the object of violence was female. Some found it exciting, while others were horrified, but very few could entirely divorce it from their emotions.

The woman's opponent, Junior noted, was among the majority who didn't know how to react. Bart Cullen, known as the Manchester Mauler when he'd fought on the bare-knuckle circuit, was new to Junior's stable and didn't seem to have a grip on his role. Sometimes the heavyweight would strike out with sharp jabs and vicious haymakers, but other times he hesitated to use his full force or took extra time to convince himself to throw a punch.

His confusion probably wasn't helped by the fact that his opponent was smiling at him. A man just doesn't expect a woman's reaction to being punched in the jaw to be a big, toothy grin. Or for her to snap two quick body shots back at him that drew a sharp grunt.

He'd learn.

The contrast between them played well to the crowd in other ways, too. Cullen looked like what he was: tall, broad, his bare torso and arms rippling with muscle, a hint of a belly and crooked nose suggesting that he was a bit past his prime (hence why he was now a pit-fighter instead of boxing in a more legitimate forum). The woman, on the other hand, was very much the beauty to the Mauler's beast, beginning with her mane of blonde hair next to his shaved peach-fuzz. She was actually tall for a woman and broad through the shoulders, and the arms and midsection revealed by her vest-like top showed the sleek curves of developed musculature, even as the breasts beneath that top displayed the more typical type of feminine curves.

Her stance was actually better than Cullen's as well, showing superior balance and a quicker guard. She slapped aside a looping right hook so that it passed by her ear and shot a counter to the Mauler's jaw that snapped his head back. Her left foot swung up, hitting Cullen at the side of the knee and jarring the leg out from under him. His balance off, he went over onto his back, hitting the pit's dirt floor with a crash. This wasn't boxing, after all; a man had to look out for every part of the opponent. About the only things considered illegal were eye-gouging, groin attacks, and the use of weapons.

He'd learn that, too.

Junior glanced up and to his right as footsteps approached from that side. He watched as the chair next to him was pulled back and a man slipped into the seat.

"Evening, Junior."

"Torchwick."

Roman Torchwick grinned at him. He'd checked his bowler hat and white ulster at the door, so he wasn't quite so obvious a sight, but still stood out in a crowd. The redhead's boyish good looks and long-lashed eyes made him look almost as young as the girl in the pit and lent him a delicate appearance suggesting innocence and weakness.

_That_ thought was almost enough to make Junior laugh.

Torchwick extracted a Havana from a silver cigar case, replaced the case under his coat, and struck a light. Once he got the cigar going, he leaned back indolently, his walking stick balanced against his leg, and exhaled a stream of smoke into the air. His every move was watched, hawk-like, by a pair of dark-haired twins standing at either end of the bar, one in a red dress and one in white.

"So, what brings you my way?" Junior said.

"What, I can't just be here for the fun and games?" Torchwick drawled, indicating the crowd with a wave of his hands.

This time Junior did laugh out loud.

"Seriously?"

"Well, okay, no. But it could have been. I'm a fun-loving guy, after all. I appreciate a pretty girl, whether she's spinning a roulette wheel or kicking somebody's teeth in. Can't say I'm much for bears"—he gestured towards a painting on the wall, one of many emphasizing the Kodiak Club's theme—"but I try not to let other people's bad taste be my problem."

Down in the pit, the Mauler was glowering at the woman; his scowl seemed to be growing at the same pace as her smile. He bull-rushed her, trying to hammer her against the boards with his full weight, but she spun out of the way so that the dull thud was just him crashing into them, and even got a kidney punch to his back before he swung around, whipping a savage left at her. The speed of the feral blow seemed to take her by surprise and it rocked her when it hammered into her shoulder. He came back off the boards, jabbing at her to try and use his superior reach, but she bobbed and weaved away from the punches, still grinning.

"But you're right," Torchwick said. "I did come here on business."

"Good to hear; business is what we do."

Torchwick tapped the ash from his cigar onto the floor.

"You've heard of the Star of the Tsang?"

"The Burmese ruby, brought back by Sir Reginald Galton-Chadbourne in his 1874 expedition to the Tsang Plateau. Sir Reginald was one of three survivors of the airship crash, and one of only two who returned alive to Rangoon. Pigeon's-blood red, of perfect quality, and worth twenty-five thousand pounds sterling at a conservative estimate."

Torchwick's lips twisted in a _moue_ of distaste that would have suited a lady at a ball. Apparently, he'd been looking forward to explaining it himself to Junior and didn't like being upstaged.

"Exactly right; I applaud your knowledge of historic jewelry." He did so literally, clapping his black-gloved hands together. Junior just scowled at him.

"Did you have a point in coming here, or did you just want to hear the sound of your own voice?"

"Ah, the bear growled at me. Best not to bait it too much, I suppose."

"At least not when you're under my roof, come to buy my help."

"Your help? I hadn't realized we'd gotten that far along yet." Torchwick lifted the cigar to his lips and inhaled, the tip a glowing red point.

"Cut line; I haven't got time for your games."

"Now, Junior, the whole world, life, it's all nothing but one great game. Those dreadfully dull fellows in their bland little offices that send their agents scurrying off to every corner of the world even call it that outright, which is more wit than I'd have credited them with possessing. And there's quite an advantage to knowing that you're playing, besides."

"Oh? What's this big advantage you've got over the rest of us, Torchwick?"

"Simply this: having established that I _am_ playing a game, I make quite certain that I play to win."

He leaned back smugly, as if he'd said something profound. And maybe he had, but if so Junior certainly didn't see it. "Play to win"—everybody did that. No one _tried_ to lose at life; there were just some who were unlucky or stupid or both. Calling it a game didn't change anything about that.

Below, the Manchester Mauler seemed to be learning the rules of his new game. He'd gotten his reach countered by a savage side-kick to the sternum, but he managed to keep the blonde from following it up. She'd gone for a grapple, which would have given her the ability to force a surrender or break his arm if he didn't give in. Instead, he got free before she could apply the hold and was able to break the following lock as well.

Cullen returned with a quick counter that she blocked easily so she could riposte with a jab that bloodied his nose, but that was just a feint so that he could stomp hard on her front foot, pinning her in place so there was no was for her to sidestep the crushing blow to her abdomen that followed.

Of course, there was also no way for him to avoid the straight left that followed when her sculpted stomach muscles stopped his punch like an iron wall. He came free of her foot and she used a heel-kick to knock him off the boards again. The crowd howled, hissing and jeering the Mauler as he tried to prop himself up on the fence, but just as soon reversed themselves as he regained his feet and hurled himself with a bellow of rage at his opponent, cheering his maddened bull-rush with as much bloodlust as Cullen felt.

For her part, the blonde never stopped smiling.

"So you're going after the Star of the Tsang," Junior took the conversation away from life philosophies and back towards money.

"That I am. It's a pretty thing, the kind of treasure that would look good in a master thief's collection."

Junior snorted. If he was a betting man, he'd give five-to-one odds that the Star would be in Amsterdam within twelve hours of Torchwick snatching it and be reduced to a number of less dramatic but infinitely more salable stones. Just because Torchwick was a little odd didn't make him crazy. Junior didn't do business with crazy.

"You'd take a fiver off your grandmother if you thought you could get away with it."

"If I could take a fiver off my grandmother, I'd never have gotten into this line at all."

"I'd guess you'd say she played to lose, then?"

Torchwick's cane whipped around like a thunderbolt, the tip smacking into the floor right next to Junior's foot.

"There are topics, dear boy, that are not fit subjects for levity, and just look at you, you've gone and found one."

The two girls, red and white, had started forward from their unobtrusive positions by the bar, but Junior waved them back. Starting trouble was bad for business.

"Noted."

"Good. Now, the Star of the Tsang. Fascinating as a discussion of my ultimate intentions might prove for my biographer on some future date, the important point for you is that I do mean to acquire it, a task that I suspect will be worthy of my skills."

"A man like Sir Reginald, to come back alive from a place like that, he won't be taken lightly, even if it did leave him a wreck of his former self. Or especially because it did. I figure if a man goes through hell to get something, he's going to be serious about keeping it. Lucas Redmond found that out the hard way, three years back."

"Ah, I always did wonder what became of him. Some form of booby trap, I take it?"

Junior nodded once.

"Right."

"My good fortune, then that I know the perfect booby to step into that trap for me."

Junior looked at him in surprise, until he considered Torchwick's usual _modus operandi_ and it fell into place what he meant.

"I always wondered what you did that for," he laughed.

"Well, it's also fun," Torchwick allowed, "but yes, Junior, when I make a move you can be certain that it will be made to my advantage."

It seemed to be a day for lessons. The Mauler's head snapped back when the girl's boot hammered him under the chin, her leg at full extension. He swayed dizzily for a couple of seconds, then dropped to his knees in the dirt. The crowd howled, thinking the end was near, and perhaps it was. In a daze, Cullen pitched forward, but as he did he flung out one paw-like hand, missing the blonde but sinking into, then grabbing hold of her waist-length hair.

"What I need from you, of course, is information," Torchwick went on.

"Of course."

"Details of security, where the Star is kept, what kind of protections are involved, everything you know about the Galton-Chadbourne household. The works, as it were."

"It'll cost you." Junior didn't even hesitate over the content of the request. It was what he did, after all. He dealt in commodities. The Kodiak Club offered some of those, but equally if not more lucrative was his status as the London underworld's premier information broker. Indeed, one could say that the club itself was part of the revenue from the information trade since it was the things he knew and the strings he could pull that kept it open.

"There's the difference between us, Junior. You just don't have an artistic soul, so all you can measure the world by is numbers, filthy lucre."

"Well, then, we're well-suited. Since money is just a nuisance to your elevated mind, you can just give it to me and we'll both be happy."

Torchwick rolled his eyes.

"Really, must _everything_ you say be so predictable? You need to have a little fun once in a while." He gestured down at the pit fighters. "Even your employees are enjoying themselves more than you."

Cullen hadn't quite pulled his opponent down with him on purpose as much as his grip on the blonde's hair had reflexively clamped down with all his force and the big man's fall had dragged her down just by virtue of his being twice her size. It caught her by surprise; one moment she'd dropped him and the next she was the one being hauled down sideways to crash into the dirt.

Her grunt of pain seemed to act as a spark that roused the Mauler. Never letting go, he pushed himself back up with his free hand, hauling her back up to her knees with him. Balling his left hand into a hamlike fist, he drove it full into her face. Roaring as blood spattered, he got a leg under himself and pushed back to his feet.

He was barely more than a maddened animal now, hurt and raging against the one who'd inflicted the injury. He staggered around in a half-circle for momentum and drove the blonde face-first into the boards so hard they rattled. Cries burst from the crowd, some in shock, others excited, their blood pumping now. Keeping her pinned there, he raised his left arm and smashed his forearm down on her back in brutal, clubbing blows that were all about rage and savagery and none of the "sweet science."

Fist still clenched in her hair, he pulled her head back and smashed it against one of the support posts. Her legs buckled, and a sudden cry of shock and fear arose from the spectators. Cullen heard none of it, his own scream of blind fury echoing in his ears as he spun the woman around and hurled her across the pit. Her limp body crashed to the ground roughly in the middle and rolled several more feet. She fell facing him, the eyes looking in his direction but glazed and sightless.

The crowd was roaring now, too, and this time Cullen could hear them just fine. Cheers, curses, howls for blood. It was what they came here for, why they were watching an illegal pit fight, the savage violence of two people tearing at each other like animals. Their eagerness seemed to feed him; he threw his head back and roared out in primal exultation, the beast celebrating its victory over a rival. He pumped his fists in the air—

—gold gleamed in the gaslight—

—and the crowd fell dead silent.

Every eye in the building seemed locked on the Mauler's right hand, on the strands of hair dangling between the fingers. Among those eyes were two that were no longer glazed and glassy, but focused with deadly intent.

A mouth that was no longer smiling cried out into the silence, "You _monster_!"

Torchwick raised an eyebrow.

"Dare I ask?" he drawled.

"It's a teaching moment."

"Oh?"

Junior smiled thinly, with a faint trace of malice.

"Poor Bart, there, is about to learn Rule Number One of being a pit fighter."

She didn't so much stand up off the ground as exploded from it, slamming into Cullen's midsection with a thunderous shoulder charge. The breath gushed from his body as he was knocked back three steps. Two quick short-arm punches hammered his midsection as he tried to collect himself, then a left cross turned his head all but sideways, pain exploding through his jaw at the impact.

In desperation, Cullen launched a wild right roundhouse that carried enough force to lay out John L. Sullivan himself if it connected. It didn't come close to landing, though; the blonde blocked it with an uppercut to his elbow that resulted in an audible snap of bone that echoed through the pit. He'd dropped his left when he threw the punch, any thought of technique lost, and her own right landed bruisingly, fracturing at least one rib. She then came back with a left-elbow uppercut over his sagging right arm that sent him crashing back into the boards again, blood from his nose and mouth spattering the finery of those standing closest.

His vision blurring, Cullen came back at her with a straight left that was less of a punch and more a weak attempt at a shove. She grabbed his wrist and forearm and twisted. He screamed, dropping to his knees even as she pivoted into a wheel kick that came down onto his face like a leg drop and left him still and unmoving in the dirt.

The crowd exploded, screaming, cheering, cursing as money was won and lost, and the mix of their voices came together as if in a chant of exultation in a revivalist preacher's congregation.

"Yang Xiao Long! Yang! Xiao! Long! _Yang! Xiao! Long!_"

It rolled through the seating like a cresting wave; even Junior felt the force of it. Yang didn't fight often, these days, only when she needed a little extra money or, he sometimes thought, just when her life got too boring and she wanted something to keep her energy level cresting high. She was always a sure crowd-pleaser, though, especially when someone was stupid or unlucky enough to mess with her hair.

Nobody had to be taught _that_ lesson more than once.

"Well?" Junior said.

"Half now, the other half after the job is successfully completed. If I'm going to trust my success to your information, then you can trust the second part of your payment to my skill."

"Done."

Torchwick dropped the cigar at his feet and used the ferrule of his cane to snuff it out.

"Then let's get to business." He waved one hand at the pit. "I'd like to arrange a little something extra to my tab, something a bit more tangible. After that display, I think I've seen quite a good omen. The Star of the Tsang will burn as brightly in my hand as that girl did in the fight, and anyone who gets in my way..."

He looked down at where the unconscious Mauler was being looked over by a staff doctor, and smiled gleefully.


	3. Chapter Two

The young man was barely into his twenties, with a fresh-scrubbed, puppyish look about him. When he handed his hat to the footman, it revealed a shock of slightly unkempt, canary-colored hair that was badly in need of a trim. When he slipped off his coat, it revealed a suit of common, inexpensive material but with the fit and cut that spoke of first-rate tailoring. There was something sheepish, almost hangdog in his look that made bullies want to push him down in the street and kind people want to pick him up and hug him.

"Mr. Arc."

The tone of voice that greeted him upon entry to the parlor made him snap upright, standing at attention like he was a soldier facing a drill sergeant.

"Yes, ma'am?"

From her chair on the other side of the parlor, Ruby Rose giggled.

"I think you're scaring him, Miss Goodwitch."

_So _this_ is the infamous Miss Goodwitch_, Jaune Arc thought. _But what's she doing here!? I thought she taught at Ruby's school?_

Glynda Goodwitch sighed.

"If Inspector Arc is made nervous by a tutor, then I can hardly imagine how he can do his job as a policeman. You may be trying to be humorous at our expense, but instead you only embarrass yourself."

"No fun at all," Ruby murmured under her breath. She was a fresh-faced girl of nineteen with a short cap of dark hair given life by reddish undertones, while her red dress and black trim vaguely suggested a Spanish lady of the previous century. Louder, she said, "It's good to see you, Jaune."

"Thanks, Ruby; you, too."

"Would you care to sit down? I can ring for tea."

"Thanks, I'd appreciate it. Up at the Yard, we don't exactly have the best blends—or the best people at making it," he said with a grin.

"Destroy another kettle, did you?"

"I don't understand how that much steam pressure could build up in something that has a spout to release it!"

Ruby giggled. Glynda Goodwitch just rolled her eyes. Jaune dropped into a seat across the coffee table from his friend.

"It's good to see you, though. Are you doing well?"

"About as well as you can expect," Ruby pouted. "At least you got to go back to your job. You would not believe how angry Dad got." She leaned forward, propping her chin in her cupped palms.

"Sit up straight, Miss Rose," Miss Goodwitch said, seating herself primly on another chair at the long end of the oblong table. "Posture like that is inappropriate for receiving guests."

"This isn't a _guest_; it's _Jaune_," Ruby's pout grew.

"He is a gentleman of good family, and it is inappropriate for you to be alone with him, unchaperoned."

Ruby's eyes widened, her face stricken, and even Jaune was taken aback. The things he wanted to talk to Ruby about were...not really private, but he'd feel silly talking about them in front of Miss Goodwitch. Which was, he supposed, the point of a chaperone, although it was something entirely different that was supposed to be suppressed.

"What's wrong with me, then?"

Three heads turned towards the door.

"Yang!" Ruby cried happily.

The blonde...well, _sauntered_ was the only way to put it. The jonquil skirt and white shirtwaist she wore were obviously a concession to the household's standards.

"What happened to you?" Jaune exclaimed, noting the black eye and the bruise spreading across one cheek.

"I got a little careless over at Junior's and let some guy ram my face into a wooden post. You should have seen it three days ago."

Jaune scowled.

"I wish we could close that place down."

Yang stretched like a lazy cat.

"It's the way of the world. Most of the places you Yard boys do manage to raid just didn't grease the right palms, or else they start up again in a different place a couple of months later. Junior's just a little more brazen about it."

"This is hardly a suitable topic of conversation for a lady," Miss Goodwitch sniffed.

"Hey, unlike me, Ruby is a lady to the tips of her fingers, and that isn't going to change regardless whether she turns into a prig on top of it."

Ruby sighed.

"Thank you, Yang."

"Don't mention it. Anyway, you can go, Miss Goodwitch. I'll stick around and make sure Jaune, here, doesn't get the chance to ravish Ruby on the settee."

"Ew, Yang!" the putative ravished and ravisher chorused.

"...as silly as that would be anyway."

"You are hardly old enough to be an adequate chaperone, Miss Xiao Long." Miss Goodwitch, it will be noted, gave Yang's last name its proper Chinese pronunciation rather than the Anglicized version she usually went by, which made Yang raise a curious eyebrow.

"That would be a valid point if I were another eligible young lady. But as the bastard half-sister, society considers me little more than another servant, like taking her maid out shopping or her groom when she rides."

"Very well." The tutor rose to her feet and adjusted her glasses. "I agree that under the circumstances, your presence will satisfy the bounds of propriety, although I wish you would not use such language in your sister's presence."

"I'm not going to have a fit of the vapors at some colorful language," Ruby said.

"Exactly. You are entirely too comfortable with it as part of an ordinary conversation. I do not want you to start adopting such speech yourself through immersion, then repeat something untoward when it might damage your reputation. But I had best be going now, or else I will waste all of Mr. Arc's visit on etiquette and decorum lessons. Good day, Inspector." She nodded in Jaune's direction, then left the parlor.

"Argh! She is so overbearing!" Ruby fumed, throwing herself back in her chair.

"Actually, her last point kind of made sense," Yang surprised the other two by admitting. "I really ought to watch what I say around you."

"Not you, too!"

"Face it, Sis, Polite Society may be mostly made up of pompous hypocrites, but there's no reason for you to slam all its doors in your face unless you've decided on a life outside it. Why waste your opportunities?"

"As if I still have any. You may not have heard, but I'm in disgrace."

"Oh, is that why one of your teachers is here playing governess?"

"Dad hired her from school to tutor me while I'm out of circulation. Apparently, I'm not supposed to be taking part in any social events for a while."

"Geez, what did you do?"

"Is this because of you throwing your punch on Weiss Schnee last week?" Jaune asked.

"That was _you_? I read about that in the _Star_. Amethyst Nell had this big write-up on it in the society column, but she didn't name who'd actually done it."

"It was an accident!"

"We were talking," Jaune explained, "and Miss Schnee yelled at us to get out of the way, we turned around really fast, and my arm hit Ruby's, making her spill her drink."

"Wow, when you make a _faux pas_, you don't do it by half!" Yang grinned at her. "I guess there's something we have in common. But still, the heiress of the Schnee Dust Company, in her own house, at her birthday ball. You might as well have thrown punch at the Queen."

"Argh, you sound just like Dad!"

"I'm surprised he didn't send you back to the country until the scandal died down."

"So far, there doesn't seem to really be any scandal. I think the ball was such a crush that only a few people saw what happened, and for whatever reason the Schnees haven't put my name about."

"That's surprisingly gracious of them."

Yang took the seat Miss Goodwitch had abandoned.

"I guess that when you own half of Europe, you have better things to do with your time than worry about petty social revenge. So Dad cut your Season short and figured you'd be better off trying next year?"

"Right, and he actually hired Miss Goodwitch to act as my tutor and governess."

Jaune nodded.

"I see, since the school term is out, she was available."

"Dad said that as long as I wasn't going to any balls or parties, I ought to at least use my time in London _productively_. I don't mind missing out on all the social events; I didn't like them anyway. But now _every_ day is a school day, with the strictest teacher in the Academy! Which I graduated from last year, so why would I need to learn _more_ from her?"

Jaune glanced at Yang.

"Dad's just looking out for you, Ruby."

"I never asked for that kind of help! The last thing I want to be is some kind of prissy, stuck-up society lady. _You've _gotten along fine without etiquette or decorum lessons."

Jaune couldn't help but smile. Really, Ruby's point about Yang "doing fine" would have been better taken when Yang didn't look like she'd been on the wrong end of a beating. Not that she would have contradicted her sister on the subject.

"I didn't have a choice about that, Ruby. Half-Chinese bastards do not get invited to balls or welcomed into Polite Society, unless it's through the back door as someone's mistress. Dad bringing me into his household when your mom died was a pretty big scandal back in the day and I was only seven. There's lots of things out there it's worth giving up your standing in society for, but there's a difference between finding one of those things and letting your reputation go because you were too scared or too lazy to try."

Ruby let out a loud, unladylike groan.

"Yang, you aren't supposed to be on _their_ side!"

Yang smirked.

"I know. Don't let Goodwitch hear about it or it'll ruin her impression of me. She's got those great scowls that make her look like a headmistress out of _The Pearl_."

Ruby clearly had no idea what her sister meant. Jaune blushed to the tips of his ears, which made Yang laugh.

"Wait, what am I not understanding?" Ruby asked. "Jaune, why are you blushing?" She gave them both the gimlet eyes. "Yang, is this one of those things I'm not supposed to know about?"

She laughed again.

"Yes, it most definitely is. Wouldn't you agree, Jaune?"

"...Yes."

"Then how do _you_ know?" Ruby demanded.

"Hey, I went to Cambridge. Some of the fellows would circulate copies."

"And now you'd have to arrest them, being a policeman and all. Though tell me, wouldn't Goodwitch look great with a riding crop?"

If it was possible, Jaune got even redder in the face.

"This is the sister who's encouraging me to be more ladylike and careful of my reputation?"

Yang just smirked.

"So, Jaune, how about you let us know what you came here to talk about? Then you can stop blushing and I can stop saying things that give Ruby reason to throw something at me."

"That's a good idea. I can only stay for so long before I have to go back to work."

They were interrupted by the entry of a maid in black dress and starched white cap and apron pushing a tea cart. She set the tray on the table; it had three cups, two pots, and a plate of biscuits. As she left, Ruby poured tea for Yang and chocolate for herself and Jaune, then snatched three macaroons off the biscuit plate.

"Thanks," Jaune said. Not only was the tea bad at Scotland Yard, it wasn't even one of his favorite beverages.

"We chocolate-lovers have to stick together, right?" Ruby smirked. "Now, c'mon, what's on your mind? You wouldn't have come if you didn't want to talk it over."

Jaune sighed.

"Have either of you ever heard of Roman Torchwick?"

Ruby's face lit up.

"The thief? The one the _Police Gazette_ calls the Phantom Gentleman?"

Jaune sighed again.

"That's him."

"Does that mean that you've been assigned to that case?"

"Uh-huh, and he's delivered another of his warning messages, in triplicate, no less. One copy to us, one copy to the victim, and one to Burnham Brown of the _Star_, just in case anyone misses it. Why does he do that?"

"Well," Ruby suggested, "he obviously wants fame and publicity, so that's why he tells the papers."

"And sending a copy to the owner is a direct threat to challenge or intimidate them, but he also spreads it around so they can't just go and ignore it all," Yang contributed.

"Ignore it? Why would they do that?" her sister asked. It was Jaune who answered.

"To avoid an embarrassing scandal, for one thing. There's a lot of people who would rather lose the money from the theft than be subject to public scrutiny. And then there's other people who would rather handle things privately. Like, if Torchwick was going to rob the Schnees, I doubt they'd want to have police guards. They'd have a small army of their own and probably some giant war automaton thing and we'd never hear a thing about it."

"Which would be _amazing_," Ruby said. "I bet they have all kinds of prototypes and things that we could never even imagine that Dust can do."

Yang snickered at Ruby's open admiration of Dust technology, which drew a sharp look from her sister.

"Anyway, Jaune, what is he going after?"

"The Star of the Tsang, the giant ruby owned by Sir Reginald Galton-Chadbourne."

"The explorer? Hey, he got that on his last expedition, didn't he? They say that only he and one of the crew got out alive, and he spent four months in a hospital in Rangoon afterwards. The only things he ever said about what happened after the crash were delirious ramblings about 'the children of shadows' and 'the elephant god,' and when he woke he claimed to have no memory of it all!"

It will be noted that Ruby had quite a fondness for sentimentalist literature, both real and fictional.

"Wow, I had to look that up in one of our files. I knew I came to the right place."

Ruby smiled, flattered, and inhaled a macaroon.

"Mmph mmrf." She paused to chew and swallow. "That is, it sounds like exactly the kind of thing a Gentleman Thief like Torchwick would steal. It's not the money, it's the drama and the challenge."

"Drama and challenge. That's it, all right. He puts himself on the spot, making sure that the police know that he's coming, and then he goes and gets away with it anyway. He makes us look like fools and puts himself in the headlines. The _Police Gazette_ sells lots of copies, and the _Star_'s full of editorials about how crime is out of control in the city and the government needs to reform."

"The government does need to reform, Jaune."

"Don't tell my dad that. Or my grandfather, for that matter."

"Yeah, guys with 'Colonel' and 'General' in front of their names usually aren't too far out in front of the reform crowd," Yang said.

Ruby gave Jaune a sympathetic look, knowing how the reminder of his family's history stung. Six generations of Arcs had served with distinction in the British army, but Jaune had washed out of his lieutenant's commission and had only ended up in the police as a last-second attempt to serve his country, and he'd only gotten that appointment because the previous Commissioner, Sir Charles Warren, was a friend and former military colleague of Colonel Sir Noirtier Arc.

"Whether it does or not isn't the point. The point is that Torchwick makes the police look like useless incompetents. I want to catch him, Ruby. I want to show him up as the fool, the clown, whatever it takes to bring him down!" He smacked his fist against his knee in frustration.

"Jaune, you really shouldn't be taking this so personally. I mean, this Torchwick guy isn't like Jack the Ripper, out there killing people or something. He's not stealing from anybody who can't afford it; all he takes are fancy jewels and artwork and stuff that's probably all insured anyway, so the companies full of pencil-pushers are the only ones who lose. It's just a big game to the public. Sure, we love to read about what tricks and gadgets he came up with to get away with the crime, but no one thinks _badly_ of the police because of it except some stuffed shirts that can't take a joke."

"Aw, not you too, Yang!" he moaned. "That's it. That's exactly what they all think, what everybody thinks. Do you think I don't know why the Superintendent assigned the Torchwick case to me? They figure it's all a big joke, and it doesn't matter if I screw it up. Do you know how many constables were assigned to the case? Two! We _know_ that notorious thief is going to attempt to steal a twenty-five-thousand-pound ruby from a knight of the realm, and I get two men to try to stop him with."

He hung his head, making Ruby think he looked like a puppy someone had just kicked. Then the miserable look was wiped away by a surprisingly fierce scowl.

"I want to catch him. I want to bring that smirking, strutting bastard—pardon me, Ruby—down. I want to show the world that even if he's nothing but a joke, that _we_ aren't."

_That _you_ aren't_, Ruby amended Jaune's thought mentally. _That Jaune Arc is more than just a dead branch on the family tree._

"But I need help," he finished off, sighing. "I can't protect against everything he might try with just two constables. At that rate, we'll just be making ourselves targets along with the ruby."

"I remember reading about that net he used in the art gallery theft. The papers said the watchman didn't get cut down until nine hours later."

Jaune looked hopefully in Yang's direction.

"I don't suppose that _you'd_ be willing to lend a hand? My superiors wouldn't like it, much, but as a bounty huntress you'd have a professional interest in the problem. That's enough legitimacy to at least..."

His voice trailed off, as she was already shaking her head.

"Sorry, but no thanks."

"Why not, Yang?" Ruby asked, surprised.

She shrugged.

"It's not exactly a professional problem. Scotland Yard doesn't pay rewards for thief-taking, if the insurance companies are acting they've hired their own inquiry agents instead of posting a general reward, and the same is true for Torchwick's victims."

"But he's still a criminal!"

"Yeah, but...he's a _fun_ criminal."

Jaune blinked in surprise.

"Fun? You think he's _fun_?"

"Yeah. That whole 'Phantom Gentleman' routine is a better show than anything on Drury Lane." She reached out and snagged the last macaroon before Ruby cleaned out the biscuit tray. "I just wish I coud get a seat up front instead of having to hear about it after the fact." She bit down into the macaroon, savoring the taste.

"Yang, what are you up to?" Ruby said. "You sound like when you and Dad have one of your schemes. I sense the telltale warning signs of you being a big sister."

Yang washed down the macaroon with a mouthful of tea.

"What? I just said that I don't have a reason to put myself in the middle of Jaune and his arch-nemesis."

Ruby looked at Jaune, then back at Yang, then made a face like she'd just had a thought she was trying not to blurt out

"Some arch-nemesis. That's like saying Ruby is Weiss Schnee's arch-nemesis in Society."

"She did throw a glass of punch on her at her own birthday party. That sounds pretty nemesis-like."

"It was an accident!"

Jaune couldn't help chuckling. Ruby went right on talking and seemed to miss his levity, which was a good thing given what she said next.

"And Jaune's right. You can't stop a dreadnought with a hot-air balloon, no matter how much you want to. Torchwick's got the advantage of advance planning and all those phantom-thief tricks he pulls. It's a matter of sheer force."

"So?" Yang asked, wondering where she was going with this.

"So, I'm going to help Jaune balance the scales."

"Really? You're going to help out?"

"Absolutely. I don't think it's very fun at all that my friend is stuck in a one-sided fight against a thief and _some_ people want the thief to win."

"Hey, I never said _that_," Yang pointed out.

"Besides, it's not as if my social calendar is full these days. Waiting around Sir Reginald's house for a thief to show up is as close to I get to an evening out in Society."

~X X X~

_A/N: Kudos to Dramon Creator and anyone else who spotted Ruby and Jaune as the couple who caused Weiss's mishap at the ball in chapter 1 of _Belladonna Lilies_!_


	4. Chapter Three

The London home of Sir Reginald Galton-Chadbourne was an ancient, rambling pile called Seven Oaks. It had quite obviously been built in stages; its two wings were done in completely different styles than the gray stone central section from which they protruded at an obtuse angle. Even though it was still afternoon, the trees (elms, not oaks, for whatever reason) threw long shadows that somehow highlighted rather than obscured the cracked walls, sagging eaves, and dilapidated shingles. The whole thing had an air of crumbling degeneracy, of the weight of history dragging down the present.

"I didn't realize that we'd be protecting the House of Usher," Ruby said as they followed the walk to a door in a curving wall in the central section. "Do you think they've got bodies buried in the cellar?"

"Maybe that's where they hide the ruby, buried in a crypt like under the pyramids. Come to think of it, nobody's ever learned exactly how Sir Reginald got his hands on the Star of the Tsang in the first place. Maybe he robbed a tomb or stole it out of the eye of an idol."

"Ooh, like in _The Moonstone_?"

"Maybe."

"Yang is going to be sorry that she missed this."

"Huh? Why?"

"Who do you think read me all those mystery and Gothic stories when I was younger? We started when I was really little with fairy tales and things like that."

"I guess 'Little Red Riding Hood' really stuck with you, then?"

"Very funny," Ruby snarked. "But as I was saying, one year she read Dickens's _A Christmas Carol_ and I really liked the spooky atmosphere and the ghostly parts, so she started reading me other things like that. And, of course, I still read them myself."

"Well, she had her chance," Jaune said, "but she didn't want to come along, so she'll just have to miss the creepy architecture."

"Jaune..." Ruby began, not quite sure what she should say. Jaune was her friend, but Yang was her sister, and in all honesty, she didn't think either one of them was completely in the right. "She didn't mean anything personal by it."

"How else am I supposed to take it? I ask a friend for help with something that actually is her job, and she not only turns me down flat, but laughs at me in the process!"

"She didn't mean it like that," Ruby protested.

"It sounded like it to me," he sighed. Then he brightened and said, "But she didn't get angry over you coming along. And I'm glad to have you here."

"Hey, what are friends for? Besides, the chance to go up against a real Gentleman Thief is exciting!"

"Well, I'm still grateful to have your help," he said decisively, then stepped up to the door. It was solid and narrow, like something from a medieval fortress designed to choke off the number of invaders that could enter at any one time. A heavy iron ring hung in a lion's mouth as a knocker, and he pounded it three times against the door. They waited nearly a minute, but just as he was reaching for the ring again it was jerked away from his fingers as the door swung open on creaking, rusty hinges.

"May I help you?"

The maid was barely a presence, plain-faced with mouse-brown hair.

"I'm Inspector Jaune Arc of the Metropolitan Police. I believe Sir Reginald is expecting us?"

He showed her his warrant card, though it was likely redundant with the two uniformed bobbies behind him.

"Oh! Yes, sir, please come in."

She took the little group down a short, narrow stone hall that had slits in the ceiling, no doubt through which arrows could be shot or boiling oil poured.

"Too bad the Gentleman isn't likely to use the front door," Jaune murmured, pointing at the ceiling. Ruby grinned and rolled her eyes, understanding the reference at once. She knew more about weapons and military history than most of Jaune's own family, which was not at all an easy standard to meet.

"Be nice, Jaune. Besides, just think how it'll feel to march the notorious Phantom Gentleman in irons into prison."

"You've got that right, miss," Constable Burns spoke up. He was a tall man with a neatly cut dark beard and moustache; the other constable, Heyman, was shorter with a mop of hair not unlike Jaune's but dark and a little more puffy. "I'm going to be glad to get my hands on that guy."

The maid handed them off to a dour, elderly footman, who took them through a winding series of halls, up and down short, irregular flights of stairs, and into the north wing of the mansion. Seven Oaks, Jaune was rapidly realizing, was a mazework, as irregular on the inside as was its exterior.

His spirits started to brighten. Just getting around inside the building from his point of entry to the jewel's location would prove a challenge for the thief, to say nothing of making an escape with the police in pursuit.

The footman opened the door into a great, vaulted room whose steeply canted ceiling was at least thirty feet above the floor. Wan illumination from a tiny skylight filtered down to join that cast by guttering flames in candle-sconces and candelabra, the sum of it entirely insufficient to light the entire chamber. The room seemed to be a kind of library; at least, there were a number of shelves and additional books lay here and there on tables and the floor. That floor was covered in exotic but threadbare Persian carpeting, the boards beneath showing through in more than one place.

"Sir Reginald, it is Inspector Arc from the police and his escort," the footman called into the gloom.

"Good, good; send him over, Haskell, that will be all."

"Yes, sir." The footman withdrew, leaving Jaune, Ruby, and the constables to cross the room, their steps echoing dully whenever they fell on the floorboards. As they got about halfway, there came a hideous creaking sound, the bitter scrape of metal on metal, and a figure emerged from a patch of shadow.

Sir Reginald Galton-Chadbourne, Jaune knew, was only forty-six, but he could easily have passed for thirty years older. His entire frame was withered and shrunken, his complexion pasty and sallow, his hair thin and gossamer-fine, flowing around his skull like a halo. He was seated in a bath-chair, a blanket across his lap; the bare metal frame and the wheels' spokes gave the impression that he'd been locked into some kind of cage-like torture device. Jaune could barely suppress a shudder; he was not particularly sensitive to atmospheres, but this place, this man, they could have gotten to a block of wood.

"Inspector Arc," Sir Reginald said, "I knew your father at Cambridge. A good man, then. We all knew he would rise in his profession." The man's voice was a wheezing, rheum-choked thing that barely sounded human.

"I'm sure he'd be happy to hear that you remembered him, Sir Reginald," he tried to keep his answer as normal as possible.

"Maybe not so much, if he thought I meant to tell you some of the pranks he got up to!" their host cackled. His face lost its smile in an instant, and he turned his fever-bright eyes on Ruby. "Now, who's this young lady?"

"Miss Ruby Rose, Sir Reginald."

He looked her up and down, taking in her short black dress, trimmed in red, that ended above the knee, worn over tights; her hooded scarlet cloak; and sturdy boots.

"Hunh. That's a combat skirt, isn't it?"

Ruby brightened.

"You recognized it?" The flared hem allowed for freedom of leg movement while the tights, not unlike a circus performer's, preserved modesty.

"Ladies who go some of the places I've been, they like to be able to take care of themselves." His expression soured, perhaps recalling that disastrous last expedition. When he spoke up again, he verified that impression.

"Fifteen years ago, Inspector, I was a healthy, vital, vigorous man with his whole life ahead of him. That expedition to the Tsang Plateau cost me friends, fortune, health...sometimes, I think it stole my soul. People think that when the _Adventure Wind_ went down that it was a tragedy, but in point of fact it was a blessing in disguise for those that died. Their ends were clean and quick, not like..."

He shuddered, and Jaune recalled the story that three men had survived the airship crash but only two the return trip. The nature of that third man's end had not been in any of the stories he'd read, and Sir Reginald was supposed to have retained no coherent memory.

Now, Jaune wondered about that.

"There was only one thing of worth that came out of that accursed expedition. The Star of the Tsang isn't just a ruby; it is the only thing left that gives the rest of my life any meaning. In its way, it _is_ me now, Mr. Arc. That is why I cannot bear to have it shut up in a bank vault away from here, and why I cannot bear to think of its loss." He reached out, and in a convulsive movement clutched at Jaune's sleeve. "Do not let it be taken!"

"That's why we're here, Sir Reginald," he said with more confidence than he felt. "Now, can you show me where the Star is kept?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Just let me ring for my manservant."

"I can push you, if you like," Jaune offered, figuring that way they wouldn't have to wait for the man to arrive. Sir Reginald mulled it over for a couple of seconds before nodding.

"Good, good, get right to work. Very well, you can assist me."

Pushing the chair wasn't as easy as it looked, but Jaune actually had practice at it, from when he'd assisted his grandmother on occasion. Following their host's direction, they made their way out of the library through halls that creaked as loudly as the chair wheels. On one occasion, they had to ascend a cramped staircase, Jaune carrying Sir Reginald while Burns wrestled the bath-chair up in his wake. At the last they came into a good-sized room that was half study, half museum, decorated with artifacts of African and Asian origin alike. It was a complete change from the House of Usher effect that seemed to permeate the rest of the house and yet, it seemed as if here, too, there was an air of sorrow. Though the exhibits were kept clean and dusted, Jaune somehow thought of them as discarded, forgotten, past glories cast aside.

From what Sir Reginald had said, that might well be the literal truth. His old life didn't seem to mean much to him any more.

The room wasn't empty as Jaune had expected, though. With his back to one wall, just in front of a display of crossed spears over a brightly painted wooden shield was a big man in footman's livery, broader across the shoulders than either Jaune or Burns and just as tall.

"Newton, this is Inspector Arc and his constables, and Miss Ruby Rose," Sir Reginald said. "They have come to assist in guarding the Star and catching the miscreant who threatens it. Perhaps Miss Rose's name is a good omen, a Ruby to protect a ruby?"

"Yes, sir," Newton said, his voice flat.

"From the moment I received the threat, I've had a guard posted here at all times. Newton, if you would show the Inspector?"

"Yes, sir."

He stepped away from the wall, then turned, removed the spears from their hooks, and took down the shield. He then pushed up one of the hooks and the other down, and a section of paneling came loose with a click. He swung it out to reveal the cold steel face of a safe.

"This safe requires both a key and a combination," Sir Reginald explained. "You'll forgive me if I do not open it to show you."

"Aw," Ruby said.

"No, no, that's all right," Jaune said. "I half expect that if you did, the Gentleman would crash through a window and grab the ruby."

"There aren't any windows in this room, sir."

"It was a figure of speech, Heyman. Though knowing him, it's entirely possible he'd find a way."

"I can't argue with that."

Jaune looked around the room.

"Where does that door lead to?" he asked, pointing across the room.

"Another hall," Sir Reginald said. "As you no doubt appreciate, Seven Oaks is a bit of a maze."

"So there's two ways into this room, and from different parts of the house," Jaune summed up. "That means there's no checkpoint between the Gentleman's point of entry and this room where we could set a trap. There'll have to be a guard here, then. Burns, Heyman, you two will stay here tonight, and I think that Newton should as well."

"I insist upon it," Sir Reginald said. "I encourage your efforts, but I will do whatever I can, as well, to protect my interests."

"The more manpower the better," Ruby said brightly.

"But," Jaune added, "I think that any servants who aren't capable guards should stay in their rooms, or better yet leave the building entirely for the night. I don't want civilian bystanders running around the house where they might be attacked, even if the extra eyes might come in handy."

Sir Reginald's eyebrows rose, but he only said, "Very well; I'll give the order."

"What about the two of us, Jaune?" Ruby asked. "What are we going to do?"

"You and I are going to be on patrol. We'll roam, keeping watch on likely avenues of entry so we can raise an alarm and cut him off if we spot him. Like a watchman's rounds, except that I don't think we should follow any kind of regular route. If he was able to observe us somehow, he could figure out the pattern and break in and out while we were off at the other end of the house."

"Are you sure you want to send the other servants away? They could help keep more of the house under watch."

Jaune shook his head.

"No, we can't risk them getting hurt, not the ones who can't protect themselves. Unless there's something like a watchtower, someplace they could stay in a group as lookouts and sound an alarm if they saw anything suspicious?" He directed that last question at Sir Reginald, but the ailing knight demurred.

"I'm afraid not; there's no such orderly scheme of protection for this house."

"It is kind of a labyrinth, isn't it?"

"I like it," Ruby said. "You can really feel the history in a place like this. Every twisting hall or odd staircase was left behind by some story of the past."

"Bah!" Sir Reginald cried. "The past is nothing but a decaying, dead thing. What did it all matter, all the families of Seven Oaks? It won't be many years before I pass on, and then it will all be over, and the Galton-Chadbourne legacy becomes nothing but a footnote in some gazetteer and a tale to be dug up by some tomb-raider a millennium from now. No! The only thing that matters is the here and now, and _that_ means protecting the Star of the Tsang from this Phantom Gentleman!"

His vehemence made them all recoil slightly in shock, even the statue-like Newton.

"W-well," Jaune stammered into the silence, "I think that Ruby and I should spend the afternoon getting to know our way around the twists and turns of this place. That way, we'll be ready to react when the Gentleman makes his appearance." Given his usual luck, if he tried to do the job without advance planning, the first time he reacted to an alarm he'd end up so lost that not only would he come nowhere near catching the thief, but they'd have to send search parties to recover him.

"I'll have my butler, Waxford, escort you. He's been in service here since before I was born, and will know whatever is necessary." He paused, then added, "I'm putting my faith in you, Inspector. Don't let me down."

Jaune felt his stomach clench involuntarily at those words. People who said things like that to him so often came to have cause to regret it.

~X X X~

Waxford lived up to his name, Ruby decided. The tall, thin man had sort of a jaundiced, pasty complexion, but more than that he never seemed to change expression, to smile, to frown, or to show any reaction at all, not even a twitch at the corner of his mouth when Jaune stumbled over a staircase that had all of its steps of different heights and had to grab the bannister to keep from doing a classic face-plant.

It was something shared by all of the servants they'd met so far, from the maid to Newton to the manservant who'd come to assist Sir Reginald while they were waiting. None of them seemed to show any kind of real emotion or human feeling, like it had all been washed out of them, drained away the way that Sir Reginald's health and vigor seemed to be.

Honestly, it was kind of creepy.

Yang would probably have said that this was what happened to a house where someone like Sir Reginald was in charge. The things he'd said to Jaune, for example—how could anyone be happy in a house where the owner had no family, no future, and was just waiting to die? What would happen to the servants, then? They'd be out of work, out of a home, without even anyone to write them a testimonial. Had Sir Reginald properly provided for them in his will?

_I liked it better when I was thinking about family curses_, Ruby thought. Curses and Gothic tragedy were romantic; these real-world concerns were just miserable.

It was kind of ironic: Poe had described the "House of Usher" as being like that, depressing without the shuddering thrill of romance, and of course utterly failed to convey that to the _reader_ because the _story_ held all that its setting lacked. But being _in_ a place like that herself for the first time in her life, Ruby understood it at once.

"So, how many of the servants are also employed as guards, Waxford?" Jaune asked. Sir Reginald had repeated Jaune's instructions about keeping most of the servants out of the way of potential trouble when he'd summoned the butler to act as guide.

"Four in all, Inspector. Newton and Edwin, the footmen, actually were hired with that purpose in mind. Also Gibson, one of the grooms, and Wallace, the gardener's assistant, are able-bodied men. In addition to myself, of course."

Ruby was a little disappointed that he hadn't named any of the female servants, though she supposed that was only to be expected.

"Yourself, Waxford?"

"Of course," he said stiffly, showing more emotion than he had in the past quarter-hour combined. "Seven Oaks is my home. I recognize that at my age I am ill-suited for a hand-to-hand encounter with a violent rogue, but I certainly will remain on watch."

"I can't ask that of you."

"It was not a matter of your request, and you do not have the authority to forbid me."

Ruby wished he hadn't said that; Jaune's pride had been hurt enough by the circumstances of this case without getting put in his place by a butler.

"You don't want the servants to fight anyone, though, do you, Jaune?" she tried to soften the blow. "So another pair of eyes would be good, right?"

"Then what would our duties be?" Waxford asked.

"Just like you said, to keep watch," Jaune exclaimed. "This house is a big and confusing place, with many ways that a thief could get inside. But if we can cover enough of the key points, when he makes his attempt, then no matter what he does someone can sound an alarm and Ruby and I can come at once to assist him."

"I see."

"I presume there are bell-pulls throughout the house?"

"Of course. They ring in the servants' quarters."

"Then if the watchers are all in rooms with bell-pulls, they can ring, and we can go there at once, if Ruby and I wait in the servants' quarters."

"Except that it could take several minutes to get there, given how much of a maze this house is," Ruby said. "But it's probably the best way. Oh! But what if they see the Gentleman or his people, but not where they are, like if they see them approaching the house out a window?"

"Hm, maybe we could work out a system of rings? Like, one ring is a general alarm, two means 'come here now,' that sort of thing?"

"We'd better make one ring 'come now,' since we don't want anyone trying to ring a bell several times while the Gentleman is attacking them."

"That's a good point."

"And that way, if they were cut off in the middle, then the right message would still get through."

"Okay, we'll go with that, then. Waxford, can you suggest some places where people can keep watch from and have easy access to a bell-pull for signaling?"

He nodded gravely.

"Of course, sir."

"Good!" Jaune couldn't help but grin. "Just maybe, this time the Phantom Gentleman has slipped up. Even the slipperiest rat can't hide away in a warren that isn't his own."

"There's one thing that I don't understand, though," Ruby said.

"Ahh, don't say that, Ruby, those 'one things' are always bad news. Can't you just agree that we've got him where we want him at last?"

"Nope."

"...Dammit. All right, what am I missing?"

"Well, it's just that the Phantom Gentleman picks his targets in advance, but you only know it _is_ a target because of the challenges he made to the owner, the police, and the press. So wouldn't he have had all the time he wanted to plan the crime in advance, including, what's the phrase they use, 'casing the crib'?"

Jaune sagged, then brightened.

"Even so, if we are being set up in the Gentleman's trap, there's one thing he can't be ready for no matter how much he's planned."

"What's that?"

"You."

It wasn't really in her nature, but Ruby still felt her cheeks go pink at the praise. After all, she was here in place of her sister, so she could only hope that she'd be able to fill those bootprints.

~X X X~

_A/N: A "bath-chair" is an old name for a wheelchair. Antique models of them never fail to creep my wife out._


	5. Chapter Four

Midnight. The witching hour, when the shadows of the soul grew longest and fear slunk in, concealed by that darkness. But for Jaune and Ruby, the tolling of a clock's chime that filtered through the halls of Seven Oaks marked the fourth hour of their vigil. The tension that they'd started with, the eager anticipation and the nervousness over what might happen had steadily drained away with the monotony of standing watch, of waiting while nothing happened.

Despite his best efforts to stifle it, Jaune yawned, making Ruby giggle.

"Excuse me," he murmured, embarrassed.

"It's okay. It's harder to just sit and do nothing than it would be if we were actually working on something."

"Yeah, but...I don't know; it just seems like a police detective on guard ought to be able to at least stay awake. You're even younger than me, Ruby; why aren't you having trouble?"

"Don't forget, up until the Schnee ball I was having a London Season. That means most nights I was out until two and three in the morning at balls and parties."

"I guess I shouldn't overlook the skills of society girls."

"Perhaps this might help you to better focus, Inspector?" Jaune and Ruby looked up as the cook set two mugs of steaming hot coffee down on the table.

"Thank you, ma'am; we appreciate it."

The plump, middle-aged woman was as distant as the other servants, but the kindness of the gesture and the fact that she'd stayed awake to make it felt warming.

"It's the least I can do, seeing what you're doing for Sir Reginald. Now, how do your take your coffee?"

"Black's fine with me," Jaune said, reaching for his mug.

"And you, miss?"

"Um...cream and five sugars?"

Jaune had heard her say that a few times, and she always seemed so embarrassed about it. The reasons were simple enough: Ruby wasn't really a coffee drinker and essentially was trying to make it as much like a cup of chocolate as she could.

Her request didn't draw any strange comments from the cook, though. She just brought over a sugar bowl and a small pitcher, allowing Ruby to doctor her coffee. Jaune didn't wait on ceremony, but started to take sips from his mug right away. The heat and the bitterness seemed to sink into him, pushing the weariness out of his body.

He didn't get a chance to enjoy more than that, though. Ruby hadn't even tasted hers yet when a sharp ring cut through the homey quiet like a hot blade.

"The morning-room is in the south wing," Ruby identified the bell even as she jumped to her feet.

"I knew that terrace was trouble," Jaune said. As a policeman, he hated French doors, which combined all the security weaknesses of a door with those of a window. He found almost at once, though, that while he had a good memory of the place and its location, he was more than a little fuzzy on the directions.

Thankfully, that did not seem to apply to Ruby, who raced pell-mell through twisting halls, up and down staircases set in strange places, passing through rooms and doors at full speed. Jaune pounded along after her; he was a fast runner and in fit shape, but even so more than once the scarlet cape would vanish around a corner when she got too far out ahead of him.

It couldn't have taken more than a minute for them to cover the ground, and they burst into the last hall leading to the morning-room at the same time as the door at the far end swung open and two figures emerged from their destination.

"The Phantom Gentleman is a girl?" Ruby said in bewilderment. "Or two girls?"

"Witnesses have seen him," Jaune said. "These two must be his henchmen. Women."

"Henchwomen!" huffed one of the two. "Miltia, did you hear what he called us?"

"What a rude person. But then, you can't expect manners from the police, Melanie."

The two women were remarkably similar in appearance, Jaune thought. On a second look, he realized that they were virtually identical: the same height, the same ivory complexion, the same almond-shaped eyes and inky black hair, the same facial features. _Twins, they've got to be twins._ Unlike some identical twins, they were easy to tell apart: Melanie wore white and had long, straight hair, while Miltia wore red and had her hair cut shorter and curled. Their weapons were different, too: the red one carried two punch daggers fitted with curving blades like claws, while the white one was empty-handed but her boots were fitted with blades along the outer edges.

"Manners?" Ruby said. "What would you two know about manners? I like the combat skirts, but really, all those feathers and fur trim make you look like a couple of actresses, and not the good kind."

"Oooh, you little—"

"We just gave that footman a little tap on the head," Melanie cut off her sister, "but I think the two of you need to be taught a real lesson."

"This isn't a game," Jaune snapped, reaching into his coat for his revolver. "You two are under arrest for breaking and entering, assault—"

As he was bringing the gun out, Melanie's hand snapped towards him, one of her bracelets dropping into her palm and flicking off her fingers at him. The small but heavy quoit struck the barrel of his gun and knocked it out of his hand.

"Please, guns are such nasty, noisy things," Miltia said, stepping past her sister to start advancing towards them. They were too close for Jaune to try to retrieve the weapon, so instead he tugged out a regulation police truncheon.

"Really? Oh, this will be funny. And what about you? Do you have a stick, too?" she asked Ruby.

"As a matter of fact, I do." Ruby brought out a baton of her own from where she wore it at the small of her back. The sisters broke out laughing.

"At least the other one _tried_," Melanie cackled. "But you went for your little stick first!"

"I like my stick," Ruby pouted. Then she snapped her wrist and the collapsible sections slid out, locking into place so she was holding a six-foot fighting staff. "But it's not little. And the stick part?" She brought her second hand onto the staff and twisted. A steel spike snicked into place at one end, and from the other slid a segmented, accordion-folded blade which with another flick unfurled and locked open. "It's really more of a handle." She spun the short-shafted voulge in her hands and smirked.

In the next instant, Ruby charged, taking three quick steps down the hall, then planted the butt-spike in the floor and used it to vault herself over Miltia, who reacted late, swiping at the air with her claws. Ruby's boots planted into Melanie's chest, knocking the white twin sprawling.

"Melanie!"

"I have her. You get him," her sister snapped, springing to her feet.

Ruby spun her voulge in a low arc, but Melanie kicked out, parrying the cleaver-like blade with her boot, then as soon as the foot hit down sent another razor-edged kick up at Ruby's head with her other foot. Ruby spun her own weapon around to parry, though, and steel clashed off steel. That first exchange was enough to tell Jaune why Ruby had picked the white twin to fight: the kick-artist's style was like nothing he'd ever encountered before and he'd have been hard-pressed to read it and anticipate her attacks. Not that Jaune had ever fought someone with claws before, either, but there was at least some basic similarity there with knife-fighting.

Miltia hesitated, looking back at her sister, but Jaune made the decision for her, darting forward and swinging his truncheon down at her. She whirled, knocking it aside and slashing at his belly; he pulled back but her claws tore at his jacket.

"Trying to club a girl from behind? Not very chivalrous," she sneered as she came after him.

"You were going to go after my partner two-on-one if I didn't. That cost you any chivalry I might have thought to offer." _Ah! Why am I defending myself to her?_ he yelped mentally as her claws narrowly missed ripping through his left bicep. He felt the sting of pain and realized that her cut had drawn blood. _She's just trying to distract me!_

Not that she needed all that much of a distraction. The red twin was fast, a lot faster than the average street tough and a lot more precise in her strikes. Jaune was forced to give ground, backing towards the end of the hall as the blades came at him, stabbing, slicing, their rhythm broken up now and again by a snapping kick that seemed designed not so much to do damage as to break up his recognition of any pattern she might be falling into.

It could have been worse, though. It wasn't just that Melanie's combat style was unusual but she was also a better fighter than her sister. Ruby found herself hard-pressed to keep up; the slashing, stabbing kicks came faster than she could manage with her voulge, and while she had the advantage of reach the hall wasn't the best place to use it, as she couldn't go full extension to either side without hitting a wall. She also had to be careful in blocking Melanie's kicks, wanting to deflect them off to the side; if she blocked a kick straight on with the voulge's shaft her precious Steel Thorn would be broken in two!

Melanie jumped in, snapping a high kick at Ruby's left shoulder, then pulling back as Ruby brought her weapon around to parry. The instant her foot hit the ground the other one was coming up with lightning speed, her toe connecting with Ruby's ribs under the arm that had been raised to move Steel Thorn. Melanie's leg pulled back at the knee, then flicked out again, ankle turning to slash. Ruby swung her body aside so that it only sliced her cape, then whipped the voulge around and down at her opponent's extended leg. Melanie pulled her leg back in time, so the cleaver blade thunked into the floorboards, but Ruby extended her left arm and smacked Steel Thorn's haft into Melanie's face. the white twin yelped in pain and reeled away, hand going to her cheek.

"Ah! You dirty—"

"Geez, my sister got her face run into a post in a fight the other day and you don't hear her whining about her stolen beauty."

With a growl of rage that might have been over the injury or the insult or both, Melanie launched herself at Ruby, going low and high alike in a flurry of kicks. Put on the defensive, Ruby blocked as well as she could, turning aside a flurry of strikes at her knees and ankles that turned into a spinning wheel kick that looked for all the world like an attempt to decapitate Ruby.

There was no chance for Ruby to block the attack and she didn't try. Melanie had made the mistake of confusing the speed of Ruby's large, slightly cumbersome _weapon_ with the speed of the girl herself. Before her opponent could react, Ruby dropped into a crouch, letting Melanie's foot whistle by over her head. She then swept Steel Thorn around in an arc, crashing the shaft into the back of Melanie's support leg. The white twin went over onto her back.

Even as Melanie crashed to the floor, Ruby popped back upright, spinning her voulge around and spearing the butt down. Remembering that she was working with the police, she twisted her left hand's grip as she struck, and the spike withdrew into the shaft so that the metal-capped tip rammed into Melanie's solar plexus, driving the wind out of her.

She then turned back to look at Jaune. The sounds of battle had kept coming from behind her while she'd been occupied with Melanie, so she'd known her friend was at least holding Miltia off, but now she saw that it was just barely that. Only a last-moment dodge made the red twin's claw hammer into the doorframe, ripping out chunks of wood instead of bits of flesh and bone.

"Hey, leave him alone!" Ruby snapped. She extended the spike again, raised Steel Thorn, and sharply squeezed two spots on the shaft simultaneously. The spike shot out of the voulge's staff like a dagger, driven by a charge of compressed air.

Her shout had warned Miltia of the coming attack, and the red twin snapped her right hand back, parrying the missile with her claws, metal ringing on metal. Ruby prepared to charge in, but the momentary distraction was enough for Jaune to strike. The young Inspector's left hand shot out, grabbing Miltia's right wrist, while at the same time he whipped his truncheon up against the base of her left-hand claws. The blades dug into the wood as he pushed the claw back and away. Miltia might have been faster and more skilled, but Jaune had a substantial edge in size and strength, and he'd managed to control her arms. Before she had a chance to wriggle free or use her feet, he snapped his head forward, driving his forehead squarely into her face. She went down hard, as if she'd been bashed with a mace.

"Now that was a heady maneuver."

Jaune groaned.

"Ruby, my head hurts enough as it is."

"Still, we won. Though, honestly? I think it's kind of silly the Phantom Gentleman turned out to be two women. I mean, a female master thief is pretty neat, but I wish they didn't have to pretend to be a man. Or are we still going with the idea that they're henchmen, in which case..."

Jaune looked up from where he was handcuffing Miltia. His eyes met Ruby's.

"Distraction."

~X X X~

Sir Reginald crouched in the darkness, hunched over within the metal framework of his chair, the cage of rods and wires that imprisoned him. He had retreated to the studio-like library, where he spent the vast majority of his waking hours these days, poring over the obscure texts that had originally led him to Burma and forever changed his fate. Even so many years later, it still clawed at him. Had he missed something that led to the disaster? Or—as he sometimes thought when he took out the ruby and let himself sink into its hidden fires—had he instead achieved a stunning success despite the odds?

He wished that he could remember. Only snatches of it came to him in dreams, now, bitter nightmares that left only hazy ghosts when he was torn awake by his own screams. It was clear that his mind was trying to protect itself through forgetfulness, and still he wanted to know, to learn once and for all why, how his life had been sacrificed. Better the horror of truth than this creeping, crawling unknown that absorbed him and everyone around him.

And now he found himself hiding, like some small, scuttling thing in the depths of a burrow, cowering and hoping that nothing would happen. The police were in his house! Ironic, that their "protection" in ways made him more vulnerable, a dragon with its fangs pulled, waiting old and toothless.

A soft breeze of cool air struck him, making him shiver and then there came a kind of slithering whisper. The serpentine sound sent cold fear sliding up and down his spine; it was a foreign sound, an alien intrusion in the shadow-wrapped studio.

His eyes went to the bell-pull. Should he ring? Call for the Inspector's aid? He now wished that he had not sent away his manservant. Human presence would be comforting now.

A soft thud caught his attention; he wheeled his head around, and there he had his explanation. The breeze had come from the opened skylight. The whisper had been the movement of something snakelike—a rope descending from the opening. The room was so drear that he might have missed those things alone. But it was impossible to miss the source of the final sound, which had been caused by a man's boots hitting the floor, the threadbare rug muffling but not silencing the sound of the impact.

"Well, well, Sir Reginald himself, I believe."

~X X X~

"We've got to get to the museum," Ruby cried. She was pulling ahead again; she'd have run completely away from Jaune if she hadn't deliberately held her pace. "The Gentleman's probably there already, and if those two were an example of the kind of force he can bring, your two constables and that footman don't stand a chance." Ruby's words could have been taken as arrogant, but Jaune knew that they were just a frank assessment of the facts. He didn't know about Newton, but he was sure Burns and Heyman would have been no match for Melanie and Miltia.

They burst into the room and were greeted with shouts of alarm and raised weapons until a second look told the three guards who it was who'd made such a violent entry.

"Sir, you nearly took a year off my life," Burns said. All three men took several looks at Ruby, taking in the pole cleaver she was carrying.

"Is something wrong?" Heyman spoke up.

"We were called to the south wing by an alarm. Two of the Gentleman's lackeys had broken in and subdued Edwin the footman. We think they were meant as a distraction to tie up security while the Gentleman himself goes after the jewel."

"But we haven't seen any sign of him. You're the only one who's tried to get in here tonight."

Ruby and Jaune glanced at one another.

"We were pretty fast," she mused. "A distraction only works if you give it time to distract."

"Yeah, but getting into a safe isn't easy. The Gentleman would have to know there'd be someone here at all times, besides. So he'd have to deal with the guard here, then the actual work of safebreaking, all while those twins had us chasing our tails."

"Maybe the plan was for the twins to beat us in the fight so he wouldn't have to deal with anyone coming back?"

"Yeah, I know they were good enough to take out the average guard, but...if the plan was to use force, why not just attack _with_ force?"

"I suppose so," Ruby admitted. "And it really doesn't seem like a Gentleman Thief's plan, to break in, beat up everyone, and loot the house at his leisure. That's just common burglary."

"Begging your pardon, Miss Rose, but the man _is_ a burglar," Constable Burns spoke up.

"But not a common one."

"She's right," Jaune said. "He does things in a certain way. The attention, the notoriety, they're important to him. A gang assaulting a house by force wouldn't entertain people, wouldn't make him a folk hero. He'd just be a low-class thug attacking police, a young woman of good family, innocent servants, and an old man who used to be a bit of a folk hero of his own and who..."

"Jaune?"

"Of course!"

"Jaune, what is it?"

"Ruby, we've got to get to the library! It isn't the safe the Phantom Gentleman wants. He's after Sir Reginald!"


End file.
